


Save You From Myself

by VirtualxChaos



Series: Forever, The End [2]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canonical Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Wesker you are the embodiment of 'nothing dead stays dead, other addititonal tags to be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2020-12-14 18:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21020573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VirtualxChaos/pseuds/VirtualxChaos
Summary: Ozwell E. Spencer employs the services of Derek Simmons to create the perfect lifeform in the image of Albert Wesker.[Update 11/04: Chapter 1 Revised.]





	1. In which Albert Wesker fails to double-cross Umbrella.

**Author's Note:**

> 11/04: Hey so I didn't remember until _after_ I wrote this that Code: Veronica was a thing ^^' most of the chapter is still the same, but there has been a section added to include Chris and Wesker's confrontation during that game. 
> 
> Also the chapter number has been changed from 3 to ? because it seems the more I write the more ideas I get.

_ Arklay Mansion, 1998 _

There's a fine, barely-noticeable tremor in the barrel that Wesker holds pointed at Chris, eyes hidden safely behind his sunglasses. His other hand hovers over the keys of the terminal, ready to awaken the tyrant. "Wesker," Chris says softly, reading the hesitation in his posture. Wesker looks into his wide, earnest eyes, remembering every mission they worked perfectly together on, every secret moment of playful banter they shared, every night spent together as maybe-friends, maybe something that could have been more than the lie of Captain and Pointman. His barrel lowers just the slightest bit. 

" _ Command accepted. Activate project tyrant initiated. Command accepted. Self-destruct sequence initiated _ ."

They both startle at the sound, spinning around, and Wesker curses as the fluid in the tank starts to drain. He looks back at Chris and gestures at the door. "Take Rebecca and go! I'll make sure it doesn't follow you." 

"Wesker, no!" Chris closes the distance between them and grabs his arm, ready to drag the other man if he has to. Wesker grabs him by the collar. From this close, Chris can see the pained look in his gray eyes through the lenses. Afraid that this might be the last time they ever see each other, he grabs the front of Wesker's tactical vest and drags him into a clumsy, rough kiss. "Don't you dare die," he demands, staring into wide, startled eyes one last time before letting go and taking off for the door. "Rebecca, let's go!"

There's the sound of shattering glass behind him just as the door clicks shut. He turns around and then he's choking on his own blood, a searing pain tearing through his abdomen where the tyrant's claws pierce him, raising him off his feet. He tries to scream but the only sound escapes is answer gurgling as blood pours out of his mouth. His gun slips from his grasp as everything quickly goes numb and unresponsive, and he's thrown across the room. The last thing he sees is the tyrant stomping towards the door. 

…

A cold fire flares to life inside him, lighting up his nervous system and knitting the severed flesh in his abdomen with astonishing speed, giving him a disturbing clarity of the process. Before the tyrant can even reach the door Wesker is there, punching his hand through it's back until it protrudes from the front, grotesquely large heart pulsating in his hand. He crushes it with a disturbingly wet sound. Bracing his arm on the tyrant's shoulder, he jerks his arm free, angrily watching his most proud creation fall to its knees and to the floor. 

  
  


\--

_ Antarctica, 1999 _

Claire struggles to get her bearings, dazed from being thrown. As Wesker grinds her shoulder into the cement with the heel of his boot, she wonders what her brother ever saw in him.

Chris stares in shock at the ghost of Wesker standing at the foot of the stairs, watching in safety from behind the pillar as his former Captain confronts Alexia, barely managing to follow their exchange. Wesker was alive? Why hadn’t he come to Chris? He suddenly feels ashamed of the last few months he spent mourning Wesker, as the knowledge that the last few moments they shared at the mansion must have been a lie. A large part of Chris refuses to believe it. The pain Chris had seen in his eyes had been real, and whatever his eyes and betrayed heart was telling him now, he knew that, at least, had not been a lie. 

To reconcile that with all the evidence suggesting otherwise was another challenge. Chris is shocked out of his stupor as fire blasts towards his hiding place, barely jumping out from behind the pillar in time as it goes up in a blaze. 

“Chris!” He looks up and stares at inhuman eyes looking back at him, momentarily stunned speechless. He doesn’t know what he was expecting from them meeting again after all this time, but disdain was not it, and it curbs the flame of hope he carried just a little more. It angers him to know that he truly had been betrayed, and fooled to boot, and the venom is his voice matches the look on Wesker’s face when he spits the other’s name. 

—

He’s glad that Claire is not there to watch her big brother get his ass kicked, and admittedly he’s not trying his hardest, hampered by his own warring emotions. Every blow Wesker lands on him doubles the bitterness in his heart, and as he slowly crawls away from Wesker he wants to demand  _ why?!  _ But the shame is too great for him to admit that he had been so thoroughly fooled, and he holds his tongue. He has to end this, for everyone’s sake, he has to stop Wesker. He spies the steel girders suspended above them, and waits until Wesker darts in for another attack to lunge for the crank holding them aloft, the aches in his body overshadowed by the pain in his chest as the metal beams rain down on Wesker. For a long minute he just sits there and breathes, trying not to let the pain overwhelm him. 

He hears the screech of metal and his eyes snap open, staring in horrified disbelief as Wesker slowly crawls his way out from beneath the collateral. They both drag themselves to their feet, and wearily he approaches his enemy, prepared to end this in any way possible. 

It’s almost a relief when the pillar comes crashing down and separates them with a buffer of flames, but Wesker’s final words before he walks away leaves Chris with an impending sense of dread.

  
  
  


\--

  
  
  
  


_ Spencer Estate, 2005 _

Chris and Jill burst through the double doors, guns at the ready. It takes a second to understand the image in front of them: the decrepit form of Ozwell Spencer, owner of Umbrella, silent and still on the ground in front of his wheelchair. A lone figure stands by the window, slowly turning to face them, and Chris lowers his gun in shock.

"Wesker!" Chris calls acidly, sounding like an insult on his tongue. 

Wesker smirks, and Chris instinctively tightens his grip on his weapon. Before either of them can say anything, Jill fires a shot. 

The fight is a blur of bullets and inhuman reflexes. They only windows of opportunity they have is when Wesker closes in to attack, leaving his back open while he's distracted. Even between Jill high kicking him in the head and Chris punching him to the ground, Wesker's impossible speed carries him to safety looking barely winded.

And then Wesker gets serious, and really, it’s barely a fight at all.

Jill grasps at the arm slowly strangling her, struggling to breathe, kicking uselessly. "No!" And then she's free, tumbling to the ground as the glass shatters behind her, and she rolls just in time to see Chris and Wesker disappear over the edge. Trying to cough and breathe at the same time while struggling to her feet, she staggers to the window, heedless of the broken glass. " _ Chris!"  _ She shouts hoarsely. But she doesn't see anything except the waves and the rocks, far down below. She doesn't hear the sound of another window breaking somewhere else in the mansion.

" _ Chris!" _

\--

Chris doesn't understand what he's seeing. he's deafened by the roar of the waves and the claps of thunder and the pouring rain. His whole body hurts, the sky above him swimming as he tries to get his bearings, the taste of copper on the back of his tongue. A dark figure crouches in front of him, and he swears he hears animalistic snarling over the cacophony of the environment. The tall stature and broad shoulders tell him it's a man, back turned to him. Over his shoulder he can see Wesker turning to face them, discarding his broken sunglasses to reveal cold gray eyes. Blood drips down the side of his face and stains his hair a dark color, matted and so unlike its usual slicked back uniformity. 

he realizes that the animalistic sound is coming from Wesker, as he bares his teeth at the stranger standing over him. "Who are you?" He demands. Between the ocean waves and the thunderstorm, he can barely hear him. He tries to sit up and lands hard back on him elbows when a wave of dizziness crashes over him, nausea roiling in him stomach threateningly.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" The man over him says, and he stares at the sound of a strangely familiar voice. He can see from his neck and ear that he's caucasian, his blond hair slicked back and shiny from the rain. Almost like--

Almost like...

He turns his head the slightest bit and Chris stares at the single red eye glancing back at him, giving him a quick once over before turning back to the enemy. 

"Chris, I would appreciate it if you didn't die before I'm finished," Wesker says without looking at him. he opens his mouth to retort, not even sure what he would say, but before he can get the first word out, he's gone. 

He can barely understand what's going on in front of him. Time's a blur of black and the vicious sounds of battle, words lost as the crash of the waves slowly fades, and he blinks in and out of consciousness. The last thing he remembers seeing is Wesker's red, red eyes, and thinking that he looks strangely worried, before his eyes roll back, and everything goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It kind of bothered me that in the DLC for RE5 when Jill and Chris confront Wesker, they had nothing to say to each other? At all? I tried to expand on it a little bit I wasn't really sure how to so ^^' (p.s. ngl I got my ass handed to me in that boss fight x'D )


	2. Believing The Lie

Chris is severely groggy when he wakes up. His head is throbbing painfully in a way that makes it hard to think, and when he tries to move he finds the rest of him also hurts. Trying to open his eyes turns out to be a mistake, the bright overhead light turning the dull throb into a sharp ache. He lets out a pained groan, trying to roll on his side. He doesn’t know where he is, or how he ended up in this state, but there’s a growing sense of urgency in the back of his mind that tells him he’s not safe. Clumsily he fumbles for the IV drip in his arm. 

Before he can rip it out, a cold hand lays over his, stopping him. He jerks away in alarm, adrenaline flooding his system as he sees Wesker looming over him. He scrambles away and falls off the other side of the bed, yanking out the IV anyway, the impact knocking all the breath out of him as it causes all the other aches and pains in his body to flair to life. He ends up knocking a tool tray down with him, grabs the first sharp object he sees--which turns out to be a scalpel, and wields it at Wesker, still struggling to crawl backwards across the ground. He doesn’t recognize the slight concern on his features until Wesker spots the weapon, his face shuttering into the cold mask Chris has grown used to.

Wesker pauses half-way around the bed, slowly raising his hands in an appeasing gesture, and a small part of Chris is surprised by his appearance. He’s wearing a light blue button-up, top three unbuttoned so that the collar frames the pale expanse of his throat, dark slacks, and combat boots. There’s no weapons or tactical gear of any kind on him, or any of the leather that Wesker was wearing when Chris fought him in the mansion. A flash-memory comes back to him, of rain and thunder and red eyes, and animalistic snarling echoing in a vicious fight. 

Chris stares as he tries to piece everything together, the blade in his hand wavering unwittingly. 

“Chris, you are severely injured,” Wesker says calmly. “You need to be resting.”

“What the  _ hell  _ is going on?!” Chris shouts, wincing at the lance of pain that shoots through his temple, but it doesn’t deter him. “Why were the two of you? Why did you bring me here?” he demands, increasingly disconcerted by the non-threatening signals Wesker is putting out. A small part of him is paranoid that the other Wesker is going to show up, but if his memory is at all reliable, he doesn’t think that will be the case. 

Wesker hesitates, and he knows that Wesker is debating what lies to tell him. And really, Chris isn’t stupid; he knows he’s in no position to be making demands. He’s no match for Wesker, especially in his current state. Chris subtly tries to search his surroundings, trying to think of a way out of this situation.

“Chris,” Wesker says softly, and the tone of his voice catches him off guard, eyes finding Wesker again before he can think better of it. The man is crouching across from him, hands still up, but the look in his eyes is disarming. It’s not the disdainful, hate-filled gaze he’s come to expect; instead it’s the same, pained gray eyes that he remembers that night in the mansion, when Chris fed into his lies. 

“No,” he says fiercely, renewing his grip on the scalpel as he tears his gaze away, heart in his throat. “I won’t fall for your lies again, Wesker.” 

“It wasn’t a lie,” Wesker rebukes, the vehemence in that statement startling him. This time he finds golden eyes, ringed with a bright red and divided by narrow slitted pupils, unwaveringly trained on him. “While I’ve been in hiding, that  _ thing  _ parading around as me was created by Umbrella. I’ve seen footage and rumors of it while I’ve been working to sabotage Umbrella, but I didn’t confront it until I got a tip of Spencer’s whereabouts.” 

Chris eyes him warily, mind racing as he slotted in the new information with what he already knew. Wesker seemed disarmingly human in front of him now, something that he had lacked in the last few times Chris had fought with him. He searched his face, looking for any signs of deception and finding none.

“Wesker?” he said weakly, lowering the scalpel. The relief is stark on the other man’s face, and Chris drops the tool, his breath starting to come in short gasps. Wesker cautiously creeps forward, cold fingertips caressing his cheek. Chris reaches up to yank him closer, closing his arms around his waist. Wesker’s arms close around his shoulders and Chris buries his face in his neck, beginning to shake violently, and Wesker just holds him tighter. It’s a silent affair, broken only by Chris’s hitching breath. He feels the touch of lips on his temple, and he tilts his head up. The kiss Wesker gives him is fierce and needy, and a welcome balm to the bitterness that Chris has carried around all this time. 

He calms down after a few minutes, and his grip on Wesker’s shirt tightens fearfully when the other man starts to draw back, but he doesn’t go very far. When Chris looks at him, his eyes are a familiar gray again, a slight furrow to his brow as he searches Chris’s face. Before Chris can catch on to what he’s doing, Wesker hoists him up into his arms. It’s a brief trip to the bed, and Chris can’t protest because he’s too busy gritting his teeth against the pain. Wesker busies himself while Chris catches his breath, and he finally chances a look down. He’s clad in nothing but a thin pair of gray sweats, his ribcage bound with a brace, bandages peaking out from underneath it. An ace bandage binds his wrist, and he can feel more gauze around his head as he tries to untense his muscles. Wesker peels the remainder of the tape off his arm, making a  _ tsk _ noise that draws Chris’s attention. He watches as Wesker presses a cotton ball to the torn needle entry in the bend of his arm with gloved hands, securing a band-aid over it before opening a new needle package and scoping out a new vein. “What is that?” he asks, turning his arm over to offer the veins in the top of his hand where he knows they’re particularly prominent. 

“Saline, and morphine,” Wesker explains, pricking him. He’s quick and efficient about it, taping the needle in place and reattaching the half-empty IV drips. “You’ve been unconscious for two days. There’s no internal bleeding or swelling, thankfully,” he says, gesturing to the large equipment in the room that Chris hadn’t noticed until now, “So you should be fine after about a week of bedrest. This will take a little longer,” he goes on, tapping the brace, “three broken ribs and a fractured wrist, which will require at least a month if not two, but you’ll live.” 

“That’s too long,” Chris groans, rubbing his uninjured hand over his face.

“You fell of a cliff,” Wesker reminds him harshly, startling him. “You’re lucky to be alive.” His eyes are glowing again, and Chris realizes that Wesker undoubtedly saw him fall. He touches Wesker’s arm, and after a moment the tension seeps out of his shoulders. A large part of Chris is still hesitant to believe anything that’s happening right now, but the more that he watches Wesker the more he’s convinced that it’s the truth. 

Wesker sighs, laying his hand over Chris’s. “Once you’re well enough to stand on your own, we can move you to a proper bedroom to recover in, but for now you’ll have to stay in here.

Chris, already starting to feel the effects of the morphine, unwittingly says something he definitely would have been embarrassed about five minutes ago. “Can’ you just carry me?” he says, slurring slightly, struggling to keep his suddenly heavy eyelids open. Wesker doesn’t answer for a long minute, and despite the fact that he’s still holding his hand, he almost thinks Wesker’s left the room until he catches a glimpse of him. Wesker’s always been hard to read, but Chris has learned that the trick is not to rely on facial cues from Wesker. Instead interprets from what Wesker says, and also doesn’t say, the way he holds himself, or responds to touch. The most telling is his eyes, which to Chris reveal Wesker’s every fleeting emotion, and in his groggy mind he wonders if that’s why Wesker always wore shades.

On the edge of consciousness, he thinks he feels a brush of lips on his temple, but he can’t be sure, as the siren call of sleep pulls him under.


	3. The One Where Chris Keeps Falling Asleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're ready because this story is apparently on a roll and I don't know if it's stopping any time soon xD Also I just wrote 2k in one sitting so I'm kind of proud of myself. 
> 
> \- Chaos

When he wakes up again, the setting is different. So much so that he thinks that he dreamed the whole encounter with Wesker--up to and including the kiss that made his heart ache just thinking about it. He’s in a big, victorian-style room made entirely of wood, protected from the chill by a lavish red comforter sprawling with brown whorls and gold thread, the room dimly lit from the light spilling out from behind the drapes of the single window on the other side of the room. The only thing that seems out of place is the metal pole sitting next to the bed, two IV bags hanging from it that are attached to the tube in his hand.

Glancing around blearily, he finds the door on the wall opposite the window, and he wonders if it’s locked. 

He stares at the door for a long while, trying and failing to figure out how he ended up here. Where _ was _ he? He felt like he was supposed to be doing something, but he couldn’t recall what. 

He doesn’t hear the footsteps coming down the hall until they’re right in front of the door, and he startles when it opens abruptly and Wesker steps into the room. Chris stares.

The relaxed look on his face shutters when he catches sight of Chris, confusion plain on his face. He comes to a stop in the doorway, almost waiting for Chris’s jurisdiction as the man struggled to comprehend the situation. 

“I— ….Wesker?” He calls softly, recalling the dream again. _ Maybe not a dream, _ he thinks as the man in question hesitantly steps further into the room, his relief palpable as he approaches the bed. 

“How are you feeling?” Wesker asks stiffly, and to a lesser man it would probably sound cold and indifferent, as if he couldn’t care less about the answer, but Chris knows better. He can tell in his rigid posture, in the way he subtly rubs his fingertips together that he’s some degree of nervous; really nervous, if he had to guess, to be able to read it so plainly. Chris turns his hand over and uncurls his fingers in offering. Wesker hesitates for a moment, as if looking for some kind of trap, before slowly reaching for it, and Chris gently tugs until Wesker is sitting on the side of the bed. 

“Sore, mostly. Memory’s kind of hazy,” he answers eventually, once Wesker is settled. He has a weird impulse to keep pulling until Wesker is laying down, but he’s afraid to push too much(and he’s not even sure if _ he _ would be comfortable with that) so he settles for stroking his thumb back and forth. The longer he looks at Wesker, the more he finds signs that things are not well. He’s still wearing the same clothes as before but they look slightly rumpled, and he idly wonders how long he’s been asleep. The faint creases around his eyes make Chris think that he might be tired, or stressed, or both. Its been a long time, and he realizes that he might not know Wesker as well as he did six years ago(or at least, as well as he thought he did). 

He curses suddenly, and is only aware that Wesker startles because he’s holding his hand. 

“Shit, Jill probably thinks I’m dead. I have to let her know I’m alive.” Wesker’s brow pinches together, and he looks like he might say something, but nothing comes. “What?” he prompts.

“I— would advise against it.” Chris stares at him, bewildered. “You’re still recovering, and you’re here with me. At best, they’ll think I’ve been keeping you against you’re will, or that I’ve been manipulating you. At worst, they might think you a traitor, a double agent.”

“No, Jill would listen to me, I’m her partner,” he insists, doubt creeping in.

“I’m sure she’s convinced that she’s lost her partner to the hands of my lesser counterpart; if you go back to her and try to tell her that I saved you’re life, she’ll think you’re delusional.”

Chris stares down at their hands, lips pressed together in a thin line. He’s not even aware that he’s stopped his soothing motion until Wesker picks it up, stroking his thumb back and forth. “I’ll leave it up to you to take that risk, but know that you’ll have a choice to make,” he goes on, and Chris wonders if it’s his imagination that Wesker’s voice is slightly softer. “We’ll have to be apart again, and I’m sure the B.S.A.A. will be keeping a close eye on you, and that your partner’s faith in you will waver. Or, you stay with me while I try to take down Umbrella, and Miss Valentine will probably hunt us more fiercely than ever out of loyalty to you.”

Chris feel anger bubble in his chest, and he looks up ready to start an argument, but Wesker doesn’t look like he’s trying to manipulate Chris into staying by his side. He looks troubled by it, looking down at their hands as Chris had been. He sighs and lets the anger fade. The silence that falls between them is heavy. 

“You should focus on healing first,” Wesker says, after a long while, standing up, and Chris is reluctant to let him go. “You’ll have at least a month to think about it.” He feels a small relief that he won’t have to decide any time soon, and guilt is fast on its heels because he knows Jill will spend the whole time thinking he’s dead. But he’s torn with indecision, and so he latches on to the excuse; he has to heal first. 

* * *

A week flies by in a haze. He sleeps most of the time, occasionally woken up by Wesker with food that he figures out on the third day that Wesker made, when he asked if there was a chef, or staff preparing the food. It’s a small mansion tucked away in the mountains on the West Coast, and the nearest town was at least a hundred miles away. Apparently the man had been using it a home base since everything went down in Raccoon city, completely alone as he diligently worked to single-handedly end Umbrella. Chris believed he could do it, too; from the perspective of an ally and an enemy, Wesker was a force to be reckoned with. But it made him solemn to think that Wesker had been alone all this time. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were alive?” Chris asks, trying and failing to mask the hurt in his voice. Wesker looked guilty, but no amount of gentle would get an answer out of him, just that same pained look in his eyes that haunted his dreams, until he left with a brusk declaration of returning to work. With nothing to distract him, it soured the rest of Chris’s day, and left him with a fitful sleep, dreams of thunder and red eyes.

“Do you ever do anything except work?” Chris asks, on day eight since what he mentally dubs as The Fall.

“I cook for you, and change your IV bags,” Wesker says, looking faintly amused. Today Chris has convinced his to lay down--well, sort of. He’s been occupying the very center of the bed, and determined to get Wesker to relax a little, he’d attempted to move to one side of the bed. Realizing that Chris would not be swayed, he’d quickly put a stop to it and reluctantly laid down on the bed, legs stressed out in front of him and crossed at the ankle, though he was still sitting up, leaning against the wall. Progress, Chris decided, and left it alone for the day. 

“Is that all? Do you sleep? Do _ you _eat?” he questioned, and the fact that Wesker actually had to stop and think about it told him that no, apparently he didn’t. 

“I’m not human anymore, Chris,” Wesker reminded him, eyes flashing briefly, and it wasn’t until that moment that Chris noticed that even when his eyes were their normal gray, his pupils were still slits, like a cat’s. It distracted him from their conversation, but only for a moment. 

“Still,” Chris argued. “You have to eat and sleep, it can’t be good for you. What if you’re not as strong as you could be because you’re not taking care of yourself properly?” Wesker looked amused. 

“...I suppose you have a point,” he conceded after a long moment.

“Bring two meals up from now on; we’ll eat together,” Chris decided, drawing a quiet huff of laughter from Wesker. 

On day ten, he finds the strength to drag himself out of bed. He’d convinced Wesker the day before to lower his morphine, and now he’s awake and alert enough to be bored out of his mind, bones creaking and popping as he slowly rolls onto his side and pushes himself into a sitting position. He’s tired just from that, but he’s had enough of laying around doing nothing all day, so after a minute of just sitting there, adjusting to his aching ribs, he pushes himself to his feet. Unsteady, he grabs for the IV pole, using it as a makeshift crutch as he slowly makes his way across the room. The air is cold, as it always seems to be, but he puts out enough heat that he doesn’t find it to uncomfortable; its a welcome change from being suffocatingly ensconced in heavy blankets. 

He makes it down two hallways and halfway down a flight of stairs before he runs out of steam and decides that he can go no further, lowering himself against the wall on the landing with the intention of catching his breath. 

A quiet _ tsk _ startles him awake, severely disoriented. When he sees Wesker standing over him he relaxes a little, before he remembers where he is. “Shit,” he says quietly, feeling strangely like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

“And where, exactly,” Wesker starts, “Were you going?” Using his _ Captain _ voice that Chris deliriously thinks of as his _ Mom _voice, inciting a giggle-snort that he fails to smother. Guiltily, he hunches his shoulders, waiting for the reprimand. 

Instead, he gets an exasperated sigh. “Honestly, Chris, you lecture me about taking care of myself, but you’re not any better about taking care of yourself,” Wesker chided, detaching the empty IV bags before crouching in front of him. “Miss Valentine and I spent many occasions making sure you rested properly after being injured on a mission, or scolding you for your terrible diet.” Chris leans forward to rest his face in the crook of his neck, and Wesker can feel him pouting against his collarbone, and he wonders if Chris is even aware that he’s doing it, finding it terribly endearing. 

Gently as he can, he lifts Chris into his arms, earning a slightly pained protest. When no words or protests are forthcoming, Wesker carries him up the stairs and back towards the bedroom.

“Where d’ y’sleep?” Chris mumbles sleepily.

“I don’t sleep, remember?” he answers amusedly, and Chris grumbles.

“Where’s your room?” He asks instead, and Wesker pauses at the end of the hall. 

“Why do you want to know?” He says, rather than answer. All he gets is incoherent mumbling, and in the silence that follows, a thought comes to him, and he smirks. 

“Would you like to sleep in my room, Chris?” He tries instead, a teasing note in his voice. 

Chris hums contently, as if he hadn’t known why he was asking until Wesker said it. “Yeah,” he sighs, the warm puff of breath on his neck making Wesker shiver. The honest answer makes his stomach twist weirdly and his chest feel heavy, and though he doesn’t understand why, it doesn’t feel bad, so he ignores it. With a quiet sigh, he turns around, and heads back for the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?


End file.
